Sophie was tending to her garden, pulling weeds from the flowerbeds, when her neighbor Margaret stopped by. With a casual air, Margaret remarked,
“Sophie, you’re not feeding your John properly, are you? He’s been having dinner at Charlotte’s, you know…”
Sophie froze. Her hands went slack.
“Margaret, what nonsense are you spouting?”
“It’s no nonsense—I saw it myself,” Margaret said with a sly smirk. “Yesterday, I went to discuss my son with the schoolteacher. Peeked through the window, and there was your John sitting at her table like family. When I knocked, he ducked under it!”
“I don’t believe you. You’re making it up,” Sophie tried to brush it off, but a shiver ran down her spine.
“Why would I lie? Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. Just don’t act surprised later.”
Sophie pretended not to take it seriously, but the words stuck. Lately, John had been avoiding meals. Three nights in a row, he came home from work and said, “Too tired to eat.” No soup, no roast—nothing.
That evening, when he went to bed early, Sophie lay awake, staring at his face in the moonlight, wrestling with her thoughts. “It can’t be. It just can’t…”
The next day, John didn’t come home for supper. The food went cold. Unable to bear it, Sophie threw on a cardigan and rushed to Charlotte’s cottage.
She hesitated at the gate. It was quiet. Only the hallway light was on. The house stood silent—but what was that coat hanging in the corridor? It looked familiar. Too familiar. Then it hit her. Their daughter, Lily, had just learned to embroider and proudly stitched tiny daisies into her father’s coat lining. Sophie stepped closer, turning the coat inside out. The delicate flowers glared at her like screams of truth. Her heart pounded wildly. Her legs gave way. She collapsed right there, tears pouring unchecked.
A minute later, John stumbled into the hall, disheveled and sheepish.
“Sophie… you’ve got it all wrong…”
“So, what—anatomy lessons here? Or algebra running late?” Sophie stood, her voice trembling more with hurt than anger. “And me, the fool, believing you were just tired… while you sat at *her* table. Even hid under it when caught!”
John chased after her, but she was already racing down the street.
“Sophie! Wait! People are watching!”
“Let them watch! I’m not the one jumping into strange beds. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of—that’s *your* burden! And hers!”
Charlotte had always carried herself like a city woman slumming it in the village. The locals hardly counted. She lived in the shared cottage, counting the days until she could return to London. The neighbors, the chores, even her students—none of it mattered. Until the porch step broke. Then she burst into tears right on the doorstep, just as John walked by. He fixed the step. Stayed for tea.
That’s how it started.
First, it was biscuits from the shop. Then shepherd’s pie. Then long evenings at her kitchen table. Charlotte didn’t care for John, but loneliness gnawed at her. And him? He was flattered. A *teacher*—giving *him* the time of day.
Now it was all out in the open.
Sophie cried into her pillow. Lily and little Rose crept to her side, not understanding, and cried too—just because Mummy was sad.
A divorce? But where would she go? No family. The village thrived on gossip. Work was scarce.
John drowned in guilt. For days, he kept his distance, living like a stranger—cooking, cleaning, eating alone. He begged, apologized, swore—but Sophie stayed cold.
“Go back to your teacher. I’m not good enough for you.”
“Sophie… think of the girls…”
“Don’t hide behind them! You lost that right!”
Two months passed. The school term ended. Charlotte packed and left. The house fell into icy silence.
August. The last week of summer. The girls played in the yard.
“Lily! Rose!” Sophie called from the window.
They scrambled inside. She handed them a wrapped lunch.
“Take this to your father in the field.”
They sprinted off. John’s tractor stood idle in the wheat. They waved like little flags.
“Dad! Mummy sent lunch!”
John climbed down, blinking as if waking.
“Mummy? *Sent* this?”
“Here!” Lily thrust the bundle at him. “Shepherd’s pie and bread.”
He spread it on the cloth, inhaling the fresh bread’s warmth. His eyes stung.
“Dad, are you crying?”
“No… just dust in my eyes.”
Returning home with a fistful of wildflowers, John faced Sophie.
“Forgive me, Sophie. And thank you.”
“I already have. I wouldn’t feed you if I hadn’t.” For the first time in months, she smiled.
Nine months later, little Oliver arrived—pink-cheeked, with his father’s eyes.
And John? John never again stepped foot in another woman’s home, not even to borrow salt.
He knew now: what he had at home was everything.
